


What Price Victory

by justalotoffeelings



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies, Gen, i made myself so sad, it was only meant to be 1000 words, no slash just EMOTIONS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalotoffeelings/pseuds/justalotoffeelings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their tombstones said that they died defending their uncle, but the legend remembers that they died protecting each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Price Victory

_Hush now_   
_Close your eyes before the sleep_   
_And you’re miles away_   
_And yesterday you were here with me_

\---

The battle raged around Thorin, and for a moment, he was back in Azanulbizar. The orcs had pressed forward then, as they did now, their wicked curved blades glinting in the light and foul war cries pouring forth from their ragged mouths. Their stench had hung in the air; torn, rotting flesh, and sweat and blood, and the bitter smell of the acrid mixture they used for war paint. Warg snarls resounded across the field.

His comrades rallied around him. He had not been a king then. He had not been the oldest of the Line of Durin. _He was King now_. He raised his blade and led the charge, roaring his defiance.

A Pale Orc appeared in the distance.

Thorin’s stride faltered.

_He remembered a monster standing before him, its eyes alight with hunger and malice. He remembered its smile when it let his grandfather’s head roll to a stop amongst a sea of bodies._

Azog was smiling at him now. The Pale Orc nodded towards the ground, and Thorin followed his gaze. But it was not Thror’s body that lay at his feet, crumpled and broken. Thror had not been so slight. _Thror had not been blonde_.

A chasm opened up in Thorin’s chest, and for a moment his heart stopped beating. He almost dropped to his knees, so intense was the pain that clutched at his insides. _Fili. Gods, no. Not Fili_. That wasn’t his nephew that lay unmoving on the ground. That _could not_ be his nephew. He would not _let_ it be his nephew. Not fearless, bright-eyed Fili, Dís’ brave little lion cub, who’d worked long hours in the forge to help his uncle, and sung songs for his younger brother when lightning and thunder had waged war in the skies. _Younger brother._ Thorin’s heart ached agonisingly. _Gods, please, don’t let Kili see. Mahal, I’m begging you. Don’t let Kili see_. But even as he prayed he heard a cry of denial somewhere off to his left, a voice so often telling jokes or teasing now coloured with anguish. _A matching set, each one incomplete without the other. Azog dared separate heart from soul._ Grief bubbled in Thorin’s throat and out of his mouth, and when he roared Fili’s name he was an echo to another.

Kili flew past him, a blur of dark hair and dark eyes and glinting armour, and Thorin almost stopped dead; the anguish on the boy’s face was all too familiar. _(Like looking into a mirror.)_

Thorin shouted out for his youngest nephew and made to pursue him, but the boy was faster, so much faster, and soon a wave of orcs separated them.

“Kili, no!” Thorin bellowed, swinging his sword in wide frantic sweeps in an effort to break through the enemy line. He could see his nephew racing across the field, swift and sure-footed even on ground that was littered with bodies. Thorin snarled and skewered two orcs in one thrust, barely taking his eyes off Kili. Panicked realisation hit him; he was not going to be able to reach him in time. There were too many orcs between them. The boy was too far away.

He cast around desperately for someone closer that could intervene and spotted a familiar head in the fray. “Dwalin!” he roared hoarsely, driving the hilt of his sword into the unprotected skull of an orc. “ _Dwalin!_ ”

Dwalin beheaded the nearest creature and turned, looking in the direction that Thorin pointed. His face paled at the sight of Kili sprinting towards Azog, eyes burning with rage and hatred and pain and despair, looking so heart-breakingly _familiar_ that for a moment Dwalin saw someone else running in his stead, another dark-haired heir of Durin crying out for his brother at Azanulbizar. Dwalin took off, fighting with new urgency to intercept Kili.

He knew within seconds that he would be too late. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Thorin._

Kili vaulted over a pile of fallen bodies and nocked an arrow to his bow.

And Azog smiled, because history was repeating itself, but _this_ time he could win.

As if in slow motion, Thorin saw Azog step to the side. There was a monstrous snarl, and the enormous grey Warg that had been lying in wait sprung up and launched itself forward. Kili brought his sword up a second too slow – the Warg rammed into him with a bone-shattering crunch. Kili let out an agonised cry as the great wolf’s claws met with his chest, teeth with his shoulder. His bow snapped under him. Then they rolled out of Thorin’s line of sight, and the King under the Mountain thought his own heart might give way.

Throwing all sense of self-preservation to the wind Thorin bellowed his nephew’s name and slammed his shoulder into the line of orc before him. They faltered briefly, unprepared for such a brash attack. But there were too many of them, a solid, impenetrable wall, and a moment later they pushed back just as hard. Thorin’s eyes glistened, and he could hardly see for the tears, because those were his _boys_ , and he loved them more than he’d ever been able to express. _Too late to tell them, now. Too great a cost. Too great a cost._

A thunderous voice rent the air, its Black Speech clearly audible even over the din of battle. An instant later the orcs in front of Thorin had fallen back, leaving him and surrounding dwarves standing on an empty strip of battleground. Thorin’s sword arm dropped.

Azog, treated to Thorin’s undivided attention, stepped around the carcass of his Warg, kicking the corpse unceremoniously to the side. Its throat was slit, Thorin saw, and a sick feeling of pride surged inside him even as grief threatened to blind him, because his nephew was a warrior and hadn’t fallen without a fight. Then the Pale Orc reached down, and when he straightened he had Kili around the throat, holding him up for everyone to see.

Thorin let out a low moan. _Oh, gods, no._

The Warg had rent open Kili’s armour and torn great gashes across his front. His shoulder, his _bow shoulder_ , was shredded. Thorin’s stomach turned to see his nephew’s bone stark white against the crimson ruin of his skin. Blood shone on the polished metal of the breastplate, now dented and scratched and gaping; armour that Kili had chosen because it was light and flexible, where something sturdier might restrict his archery. And Thorin had _let_ him, by Aulë, because this was Kili’s first battle, ( _last battle_ ), and he’d wanted to humour the boy.

Boy? No, that was not a boy that hung in Azog’s grip, clawing weakly at the hand around his neck. Kili had left boyhood behind the moment he’d seen his brother lying limp on the ground, blood in his hair and beneath his head.

_Too great a cost,_ Thorin screamed to himself.

“The legendary Thorin Oakenshield,” Azog sneered above the clamour, tightening his grip around Kili’s throat to make him struggle. “Sending children into battle to reclaim such petty t–”

Thorin started forward without waiting for the orc to finish. Before he’d taken two steps someone dragged him back.

“Thorin, please,” Balin begged, eyes brimming with tears. “Don’t let him bait you.”

But Thorin could not hear over the turmoil of his own thoughts, nor even see through the red haze obscuring his vision. He pushed past his oldest friend with a snarl, his sister’s voice ringing in his ears: _You look after those boys, Thorin Oakenshield, or don’t expect to see the next sunrise._

Thorin didn’t intend to. ( _Too great a cost_.)

\---

Kili was on fire.

His shoulder, his chest, his throat, all burnt with an unbearable heat that sent flashes of white lightning dancing in front of his eyes. He choked back a scream as Azog’s fingers dug into his throat, brushing the torn flesh of his shoulder. _Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Fili’s still down there. You can’t pass out._

He repeated the mantra to himself as he gasped for air, clutching desperately at Azog’s wrist. If he hadn’t been in so much pain he might have been terrified; the Pale Orc was growling something in Black Speech, upper lip curled into a disdainful smirk.

Then the hand around his throat was gone, and Kili was falling, and he landed awkwardly and heard something snap. His ankle disappeared in a blaze of white-hot agony. For one sweet, blissful moment Kili succumbed to unconsciousness. But the image of his brother lying broken on the ground was burned into his eyelids, and he jerked himself awake with a broken sob before he lost the will to move.

_Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. You have to get to Fili. You can’t pass out._

\---

The earth was bitterly cold beneath Fili’s cheek. He would have shivered if he had the strength, but life had fled from his limbs, and the cold was better than the searing heat of his wounds. It felt like years since warmth had last been comforting rather than agonising.

_Warmth_. The word brought up thoughts of home, and of his brother. Kili was warmth, more than anything else in the world. He was the flicker of firelight in dark eyes and the hot summer sun glinting off the water and small arms wrapped around your waist, begging for a piggy-back. He was, most especially, long nights spent huddled beside the hearth, giggling over scary stories, leaning against each other to keep away the cold. What Fili would give to be back there. Erebor was better when it was only a legend.

Fili’s breath rattled in his throat, and he curled around the dull pain in his chest where Azog’s sword had lanced through muscle and bone and flesh. He was dying, he knew that. He would not live to see the halls of the Lonely Mountain bustling with activity, hung with rich tapestries that were gilded with jewels. He would not live to see Thorin crowned. He would not live to see _himself_ crowned. Kili was the heir now. He coughed a laugh, feeling blood on his lips. Little brother would absolutely _hate_ that, wouldn’t he, having to be responsible and attend functions and wear robes. Having to be king.

_At least he was safe_ – Fili had made sure of that. Azog had been headed towards where Kili was wreaking havoc alongside Bofur and Gloin and some of Dain’s dwarves. The Pale Orc’s sword was already dripping with the blood of elves and dwarves and men, and all who had come before him had fallen. Fili screamed his brother’s name, but Kili was deaf to everything save the directions of his comrades. Fili had hesitated barely a breath before throwing himself in front of Azog, less than twenty metres from where Kili and the others had their backs to the Pale Orc.

Azog had snarled and lashed out with his sword, annoyed that someone would dare try and halt his march, and Fili had dodged around behind him. He hoped to lure him away from Kili and towards the slopes where he knew the elvish archers were positioned. They might have better luck from a distance than others seemed to be having at close range. _Away from Kili. Just get him away from Kili._

It might have worked, if Azog hadn’t paused and gotten a good look at Fili. Something in the way this little blonde pest carried himself reminded him of someone else. The face, too, was familiar, if he darkened the hair and ignored the braids and filled the eyes with a blacker hatred than was there now. He pieced it together in seconds, and his shoulders shook as he laughed. What luck, to find an unexpected member of the Line of Durin on the battlefield, with which to teach Thorin Oakenshield a lesson.

Fili held his own for far longer than the other dwarves who had stood in the Pale Orc’s way, even managed to land a blow. But, finally, inevitably, Azog cut him down on the battlefield. He did not cry out; Kili would do something stupid if he knew that his brother was injured.

His own double standards were pushed to the side. Gods forbid _Kili_ should ever to something stupid to protect what he loved most in this world. No, that was Fili’s privilege, and his alone.

_I never got to say goodbye_ , he thought. The darkness was creeping in on the edges of his mind, a quiet, comforting numbness that promised to protect him and shelter him and stop anything from hurting him ever again. _I would’ve liked to say goodbye._ Voices were calling him now, beckoning, voices that he knew and trusted. He heard his mother, heard her smile, and he heard his father and he heard Thorin and he heard _Kili_ , and his brother sounded _so real, so close_. Fili sighed. _It would’ve been nice to say goodbye._

“Fili!”

The voices were clearer now, the darkness almost transparent. He felt hands on his face, a blessed heat to stave off the cold, and _this_ was the warmth he missed, not the anguish of blade through flesh or bone through skin, and he could almost imagine that–

“ _Brother!_ ”

Fili forced his eyes open, blinking against the light. There was someone bent over him, silhouetted by the sun, someone with dark hair and dark eyes and a bloodied nose and a split lip and _such despair on his face_ that Fili almost didn’t recognise him.

“Hey, little brother,” he croaked.

Kili managed a laugh that was more of a sob than anything else. “You bastard,” he said, turning his shoulder battle-wards so Fili wouldn’t see what the Warg had done. “Recklessness is _my_ area of expertise. We can’t have more than one dashing, fearless dwarf in the Company.”

“That’s fairly narrow-minded,” said Fili.

Kili chuckled, then gasped and doubled over, clutching his ribs. His hands came away covered in blood. _Bone through skin_.

“What have you done to yourself,” Fili breathed, dismayed.

His brother shook his head. “Nothing, nothing.”

“ _Kili_.”

A shaky breath, a shaky smirk. “I told you, recklessness is _my_ area of expertise. Couldn’t let you steal all the attention, now, could I?”

“I tried to protect you,” Fili whispered, and the darkness was returning to the edges of his vision, and it was getting harder to speak. “I _promised_ to protect you.”

“You’ve been protecting me my whole life, Fili,” Kili said gently. “I’d be dead fifty times over if it weren’t for you. It’s high time I started pulling my weight.” _And I’m doing a terrible job of it, aren’t I?_

Fili felt his heart clench with pride and love and sorrow. Tears burned his eyes. “I’m so proud of you, little brother,” he whispered, and his eyes started to flutter close of their own accord, and he didn’t want to leave yet, but he was just _so tired_.

“Fili. _Fili!_ No, please!” Kili grabbed his arm tightly, and shook his brother when he didn’t respond. “ _Fili!_ ”

Fili dragged in a breath. “I can’t stay…little brother.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I…can’t.”

“Yes you _can_ ,” Kili insisted brokenly. The tears he’d held back for his brother’s sake spilled out onto his cheeks, snaking pale tracks through the blood and the grime on his face. “You’re going to be fine, Fee. It’s going to be alright.”

“Kili–”

Kili’s eyes gleamed desperately. “I’ll get Thorin, you’ll be alright, I’ll go find him.” He turned, and his breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to tear apart at the seams. “Oh, gods.”

And Fili couldn’t see what his brother saw ( _Thorin lying still as death, the broken shaft of a spear embedded in his chest, and Azog on the ground beside him)_ but he _knew_ , didn’t he, because this battle was always going to end in tragedy, and legends always begin at their end.

He smiled sadly and reached up to push Kili’s tangled hair out of his eyes. Kili sobbed and pressed his own hand to his brother’s, leaning into the worn, icy palm, trying to forget where they were and what had happened. “I’ll find someone,” he choked. “I’ll find Oin.” He turned again and tried to scramble to his feet, but his ribs flared with agony and his ankle wouldn’t take his weight, and the ground was slick with his brother’s blood, and his own.

“Have to…let me go, little brother,” said Fili, and his voice was barely audible now.

“No,” Kili whispered, his vision swimming from blood loss, and another loss more significant than that. “ _Never_.”

“Please.”

 “ ** _Never_**.”

“Stubborn…little brother,” smiled Fili, and his fingers relaxed in Kili’s grip, and a final tremor ran its way down his body. “I’ll say hello to pa for you,” he breathed. “Love you…Kee.” And then his eyes closed for the last time.

“No,” Kili sobbed. “ _No_.” He took his brother’s face in his trembling hands, willing him to open his eyes, laugh and say it was just a joke, that the wound wasn’t serious. “Please don’t go. Don’t go without me. Don’t _leave me here_ , Fili.”

But Fili didn’t answer, and Kili wept brokenly, because beneath his fingertips he could feel his brother’s pulse slowing to a stop. He pressed his forehead to Fili’s, moaning over and over, ‘ _Please, brother, please don’t go without me_.’

And, soon: ‘ _Wait for me, I won’t be long_.’

His blood drained quickly, and he stopped fighting the effects of its loss, because there was nothing left to fight for anymore. _I’m sorry, Mother_ , he thought. Dís would understand, though, wouldn’t she; that neither of her sons could live without their brother, their other half. _A matching set_.

Kili would be little more than a ghost if he survived the battle. So he intended not to survive.

“Wait for me, brother,” he whispered, head falling forward onto Fili’s shoulder. “ _Wait_ …”

\---

_And when the darkness came to claim him at last he found he did not have to travel alone, for there was a familiar, smiling figure waiting to accompany him to the far shore._

\---

They found them after the battle ended, lying side by side with their fingers intertwined on ground that was drenched with both their blood, and they carried them abreast on stretchers to the Lonely Mountain. Their uncle died having seen their broken bodies lain before him. ( _And they say he died from grief_.)

They were buried all beside each other, the last of the Line of Durin, with crowns upon their heads and the blessings of their companions on their brows.

Their friends talked sadly of the two young princes whose laughter might have echoed through the stone halls of Erebor.

And their tombstones said that they died defending their uncle, but the legend remembers that they died protecting each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hopefully that made you sad, because I made myself ridiculously sad while I wrote it. This is the first fic I’ve written that isn’t a cavity-inducing-ly sweet young!Durin fic, so I hope it went alright and was suitably heart-breaking (let me know if it was). Thank you so much for reading, you guys. All comments and critiques are greatly appreciated! C:
> 
> Lyrics from Autumn Leaves – Ed Sheeran


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